


dii2a2ter

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ASCII, Alternate Universe - College/University, Chases, Food Fight, Getting Memed On Hard, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You swallow. Look straight at him—straight through two sets of glasses, as straight as the two of you ever get with each other. “That was flirting.”</p><p>“And you could at leatht flirt <em>back</em>.” Sollux even has the audacity to look cranky about it.</p><p>--</p><p>Months of pitch flirting culminates in... well, something messy, but the beginning of something really excellent. Rated M for a poignant, magnificent ASCII donger and for the climax of this dramatic structure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. exposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [specialsari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialsari/gifts).



> it is i, dirksol anon! nun
> 
> thanks to my pamplemoose du fromage for betaing

The troll in charge of the undergrad computer lab is an absolute _horse’s ass_.

You know this because you’ve already been thoroughly exposed to his assholishness. Sollux Captor was in your COMP 101 class last semester. At one point he hacked into the professor’s laptop to show a full-screen notification during one of her PowerPoints. All it said was o≈≈≈>~~. To the best of your knowledge, that’s the troll equivalent of 8===D~~. And he had the temerity to stare at you like he wanted to level the building with his eyes once you realized it was him that did it.

He always looked bored as hell tip-tapping away at his husktop, but whatever he was doing on there, it wasn’t schoolwork. You, on the other hand, got enough pings on your Pesterchum from anonymizing services that you have logs from handles 213 through 921. Sollux can disguise his distinctive quirk, but you know it was him. Had to be, behind all those nihilistic zeroes and doom-ridden prophecies about how he’d beat you. (He did. He set the curve for the class and you only got the second-highest grade. You got your grades back from last semester a week ago and haven’t stopped complaining to Roxy since.)

Sollux will even show up to your extracurriculars sometimes. You have no idea why. There’s nothing of interest for him at the Robotics Club meetings—he doesn’t build robots and, to hear him talk about it, he has less than no interest in programming them. All he does when he shows up is needle all of you pointedly until Equius starts sweating and you have to towel down any chasses. Thankfully Roxy always gets him to shoo. You never tell him when your meeting times or places are, but you have a lingering suspicion that he managed to not only find the listserv, but put his name on the list so cunningly that even you can’t desub him.

“Come on,” you tell Sollux one more time, leaning over his desk. “I need to use a Linux terminal for this.” You’re both freshmen still, yet somehow he ended up in charge of full-time university employees. He doesn’t even have to do work-study to be able to afford school—he does it because he _likes_ it. What a fucking _nerd_.

“Thorry,” Sollux lisps up at you, not even deigning to turn and give you eye contact. “Can’t.”

“Can’t let me, or won’t let me?”

“Oopth. Mitthpoke.” Now you have what looks like the bare minimum of his attention. He’s making those S sounds on purpose just so he can fleck more spit on you, you know it. “Won’t. It’th for your _robotth_ , and you can uthe Windowth, jutht like every other lowbrow dipthtick who thwearth he won’t methh up Linuckth thith time around, promithe!”

There is spittle frothed all over your forearm—mostly because it’s your own damn fault for leaning over Sollux’s desk and trying to get into his personal space. “That was one time,” you snarl at him. “One fucking time, and it wasn’t me, it was your asinine squiggle-ath—”

“Tilde-ath.”

“Yes. That’s the joke.” Deadpan. You take in a long breath and huff it out, nostrils flaring—because if you don’t, you think you might strangle this walking coathanger. Time to negotiate. “Listen.” You push your shades back up on your face, run your hand through your hair and mess up your perfectly shellacked spikes. “I use Linux for the bots because it’s the best approximation to my operating system.”

“ _Your_ operating thythtem?” Sollux lets out a derisive ‘heh.’

“Look, just let me use the damn terminal already, this project is due in two days for my actual, real-life robotics class and it is worth half of my actual, real-life grade.”

“That thoundth like a you problem, Thtrider.” Sollux arches a defiant, twice-pierced eyebrow at you over his Gunners—a piss-poor replacement for his old 3D lenses. Maybe that’s why he’s so full of vinegar: he’s constantly looking at the world through urine-colored glasses.

“This is not a _me_ problem, this is a _my laptop died on me and it’s in the shop for a week_ problem,” you insist. “More to the point, it’s a _you_ problem, _Tholluckth_ , because _you_ are standing between _me_ and the thing that I want, and _I_ have a problem with that.”

“I knew that,” is all he says to your outburst, and goes right back to his dual-monitor setup, his fingers moving at an inhuman speed as he—what is that?—fixes one of the printer queues. Dumb thing jammed again. You keep telling him, if he just hired you then you could rewrite the program in a language that printers were actually meant to communicate in, but no, he insists on doing things the hard way.

“I know you know that,” you pinch off. Your seethe you keep quietly to yourself. Of course he knows, he’s an IT supervisor.

“Too bad the ath-key art wathn’t the right retholution, bet that drove you inthane,” the troll mutters to his computers.

Problem: He wouldn’t know about the ASCII unless— “Captor.” You are about to have a conniption. “Don’t tell me you wrote the virus that took it out of commission.”

“Whatever helpth you thleep at noon.”

“I am going to _disembowel you_.”

Sollux just shrugs. “It got you out of your fucking room and down to the computer lab. Rethounding thuckthhethh.”

He has to be doing the lisp thing on purpose to piss you off. It’s not even cute. He knows you hate it. “God, I loathe you.”

Sollux grins, the smile of a shark with blood in the water. “Good,” he spits out—nearly literally, phlegm landing dangerously close to the hand you still have planted on the surface of his workstation.

That throws you off-balance. Just a little. Just enough. “You—” You close your lips, set them in a tight line. Actually try to _think_ of the words you want to come out of your mouth instead of letting the crawling prickle under your skin do it for you. “That.” Closer. You swallow. Look straight at him—straight through two sets of glasses, as straight as the two of you ever get with each other. “That was flirting.”

“And you could at leatht flirt _back_.” Sollux even has the audacity to look cranky about it.

So that’s how it’s going to be. You start gnawing on your bottom lip. Internally you’re running what Roxy calls The Algorithm. Into it you feed certain facts and facts certain, and out of it you receive only the inexorable, logical conclusion.

 **Here is what you know:** Sollux is a troll. He is an Alternian troll. He is a troll from a planet that enforced romantic relationships to the point of putting to death anyone who dared not to participate in the quadrant system. He is also a troll who does not seem to spare a single fuck for any kind of propriety whatsoever. He is a powerful coder and an even more powerful psionic. And he has been pitch flirting with you, possibly for months, below your radar.

 **Here is also what you know:** You are a human. You are a Future Earth human. You are a human from a planet ruled over by his beloved Empress, may her grave ever be pissed on. Because she tried to impose a childrearing system based on her home, quadrants make you throw up a little in your mouth.

And there is a streak of black trickling down the back of your spine and running through your guts and thrumming in your fucking _teeth_ for how much you hate Sollux Captor in this moment.

 **Intermediary conclusions:** He’d make a good match for you, that much is clear. His verbal skills are up to par (fuck “up to par,” you could snark at him all day and never get bored). He’s adequate at his job (fuck “adequate,” he’s the best coder you’ve ever seen apart from yourself and you’re counting Roxy in this—Roxy, the crazy bitch who hacked into HIC’s network just to play a shitty game with her childhood friends). He’s decently attractive (fuck “decently,” the way his scrawny shoulders move like liquid under his baggy shirt whenever he shrugs at you, the curl of his lip whenever he deigns you worthy to speak to, the long lanky planes of him stretched easy like taffy and easily just as sweet, the flick of his tongue across his teeth).

Your culturally-imposed romantic paradigms align, but your personal responses to them clash impossibly. All the same, Sollux fucking Captor has deliberately gone out of his way to strike up a black flirtation with you in the hopes that he can get a human as a spade. And you’ve been such a stick-up-his-own-ass moron that you didn’t realize until he had to spell it out for you. In poorly-rendered ASCII penises, but still.

You hate him, yes, but is it concupiscent hate or not? You have no gauge for this—you don’t even know how to tell the difference. And you don’t know why he chose _you_ , of all people. You are the most mulish person you know, even if you count this asshole. There is nothing about you that particularly screams kismesis material.

Shit, you hate this douche, if for no other reason than for paralyzing you with doubt.

 **Final conclusion:** You have no idea what to do.

“I,” you drawl out, extremely articulately. You feel like you’ve been hit by an eighteen-wheeler going seventy on an icy road.

Sollux turns back to his coding, but he holds out a lanyard to you with one hand while the other’s claws clack madly away. His typing could put a Gatling gun to shame. “Thecond terminal to the right, credentialth and authentication ith right here.”

There are four different thumb drives on the end of that lanyard and none of them are marked. “Take your dongle and shove it up your tilde- _ass_ ,” you grumble at him, batting away his hand and walking away without any visible battle scars.

The password, thankfully, isn’t hard to guess. Even if you hadn’t, there’s a program on your portable hard drive that would have cracked it for you. But once you bluff past the encryption, what greets you is this:

　 　 　 　                          ＿_,,,,、 .,、  
　　　　　　　　　　 　／'ﾞ´,_/'″　 . ｀＼  
　　　　　　　　　 : ./ 　　i./　,,..、　　  ヽ  
　　　　　　　　 . /　　　 /．　ｌ, ,!　　　｀,  
　 　 　 　 　 　.| 　.,..‐.､│　 　 　　　　 　.|  
　 　 　 　 　 　（´゛ ,/　llヽ 　　 　 　 　 　 |  
　　　 　 　 　 　 ヽ -./ .， lliヽ　　　　　　 .|  
　　 　 　 　 　 　 /'",i" ﾞ;、 ｌ'ｉi,''く　　　　　.ヽ  
　　　　　　　　　/ ...│　 ﾞl,　 ｌﾞﾞt, ''ii_　　:.!  
　　　　　　　 : /.._　/ 　 　ヽ　＼＼.｀ﾞ~''''''"./  
　　　　　　　 .|-ﾞノ/　　 : ゝ　.､　` .｀''←┬゛  
　 　 　 　 　 lﾞ　/.ｒ　　　゛ .ﾞﾋ, .ヽ,　　￣ﾞ|  
　　　　　　 . | ./ ｌ　　　　　　”'､ .ﾞゝ........ん  
　　　　　　　l　 /　　　　 ヽ　.`' ｀､、 　.,i゛  
　　　　　　 .l|　 !　　　 ''''v,　　　 ﾞ''ｰ　．l、  
　　　　　　 |lﾞ .il、　　.l　　.ヽ　 .¬---イ  
　　　　　　.llﾞ, ./ 　　 !　 　 　 　 　 　 ,!  
　　　　　　.!!...!!　　　,,ﾞ''''ｰ　　　　　　 .|  
　　　　　　l.",!　　　 .ﾘ　　　　　　　　 |  
　　　　　　l":|　　　 .〜'''　　　　 　,. │  
　　　　　　l; :!　　　 .|'"　　 　...ノ,ﾞ./ │  
　　　　　　l: l｢　　　 !　　　 .￣ﾞﾞ /　　!  
　　　　　 .| .|　　　　!　　　　　,i│　　|  
　　　　　 :! .l.　　　 ｝　　　　,i'./ 　　 |  
　　　　　 :! .|　　　 :|　　　 . / 　　　 .|  
　　　　　 :! |　　　 ;!　　　"　　　　 　.|  
　　　　　 :! !　　　 │　　　　　　　　│  
　　　　　 :!:|　　 　 　 　 　 　 　 ,! i　,!  
　　　　　 :! ，　　　 .ｌ,　　　　　 / .lﾞ　!  
　　　　　 :! |　　　 ， ｌ.　　　　　| .|　　:，  
　　　 : v'" .!　　　 |'i .ヽ,　　　 ./ :!　　.ヽ  
　_,　_/　　/ 　　　　.ｌ　　゛　._/　:lﾞ　　　 .｀ﾞ"

 

You’re apoplectic, seeing black. “Captor, for the love of God and all his little angels, get your ass over here _right now_ and fix this terminal.” You can hear his shitty wheezing laughter from across the computer lab, for christ’s sake. “Captor,” you call out again, and stand from your computer chair, gathering all six-foot-six of yourself like a thundercloud.

He zips out of the room fast as lightning and you bolt out after him, hollering for his hide and frightening more than a few innocent civilians who shouldn’t have had to deal with the nuclear fallout of a freshly-formed kismessitude. Out of the lab and into the basement of the student union, vaulting the stairs two and three at a time, your longer legs a huge advantage with catching up, but then you see a crackle of red and blue passing by the Starbucks on the ground floor and he’s cheating with his psionics, the brilliant fucker.

All Karkat wanted to do, looks like, was grab a quick quad espresso and go right back to being hunkered down in Nix Hall with his kiddie scripts and Piratebay pissing contests. “What in the nook-blistered outer ring of Paradox—”

“Shut up,” you yell at him as you pass, and with your wildly swinging arms you manage to upset his coffee from his clutching hands. It spills all over his shirt. You leave his tantrum in your rearview.

“Oi, what’s this then!” an obnoxious British accent pipes in as Sollux approaches the doorway that leads to Main Quad, and you _absolutely do not have time for your ex-boyfriend right now_ but Jake seems to want to make this mistake anyway. By the time he realizes what’s going on, he’s helpfully tried to put out his foot to help trip Sollux up, but it just makes _you_ nearly twist your ankle because Jake is a goddamn buffoon who doesn’t seem to understand that Sollux, slippery little shit that he is, is gleefully defying the laws of known physics just to lead you on a merry chase through the SUB.

More than, as Sollux bursts outside and you follow him into a vaguely wet Wednesday afternoon in the ides of March. Everybody out of the goddamn way, you got a head full of steam, an attitude full of salt, and a crotch full of ache. “Get back here!” you scream at him, and you find yourself smiling because— _because_ , okay, you don’t need _reasons_ when the path to the Dark Side is blazing so hot in your core right now. This magnificent bastard just trolled you with an impressively tumescent ASCII donger and you will meme him back if it’s the last thing you do.

Ducks left, in a blur of red and blue, frying the slot meant for keycard entry into another building with his psionics as he passes, and you just barely catch the open door—why is it so heavy—before you almost lose sight of him. The air left in his wake is crackling across your skin, in your lungs. You don’t think you’ve even been in this building before; from the cacophony around you it’s the music school building, which is why you’ve avoided it like the plague through one and a half semesters here—you have no reason ever to step into this building, no desire to run into your paradox space twin brother if you can help it, and it starts with never being in the same place.

You always thought hatred would feel cold, like revenge. You always thought _wrong_.

Gone in less than thirty seconds, footfalls thudding, breath heavy in your own ears, then you’re outside again, breathing in the nasty fog soup of pretend spring and very real pollen before darting through another building—Cetus South Dining Hall, great, more people to witness this inanity. You can see him, no more corners, just sprinting through the length of the dining area, literally faster than humanly possible. He has the raw nerve to laugh at you while he’s hurtling through—and then.

He flings food at your shades. Banana pudding mashes itself into your already-ruined hair.

Oh, it is _on_.

“You can’t just do that!” someone whines—when you turn your head it’s John, the other bucktoothed boy wonder, for once not on the starting end of a prank. Maybe that’s why he looks so put out. That being said, just because he didn’t start it doesn’t mean he can’t end it, and John reaches over for Jade’s plate, grabs the cake she’d picked for dessert, and throws it right back at Sollux.

The banana pudding just gets aimed at John next, splatting across his glasses with an admittedly cool shower of blue sparks behind it. “Food fight!” Jade hollers, and flings the rest of her peas in the general direction of the two assholes who interrupted her meal, the two assholes being you and the prolapsed anus you’re chasing.

By the time you get to the end of the room, it’s devolved into chaos. Sollux is cackling—crackling—both as he gets pelted with what looks like two-day-old sushi. Meanwhile, you’re getting flecked with bits of rice, mashed potatoes, and wilted broccoli. The poor attendant at the end of the hall gets neatly sidestepped by the both of you, and he yells idly after you that you’re banned from there for a week and see if you aren’t written up.

Out of Cetus South and right back across the quad—oh, that’s it, he’s heading for familiar territory, because Nix Hall is in view, and your lungs burn and your legs burn and your hate burns and it feels so fucking good to have Sollux push you this far this fast. He has to stop for keycard access to his own building, swiping through his student ID card so rapidly you’re surprised the cheap plastic doesn’t snap in half, but you’ve caught up enough that you nearly brush his fingers with yours when you go for the front door. Just that much is electric, humming across your skin.

One, two strides and you reach out and catch him by the wrist. He’s breathless-laughing and you want to see him this exhilarated forever. And it’s not just that you push him against the nearest vertical surface to punch him on the mouth with your lips, it’s that he pulls you in by the ears and doesn’t let you go.


	2. climax

The inside of Dirk’s mouth tastes like black tar heroin—pitch and addictive. You twine your fingers in his hair, mashing banana pudding all along those ridiculous anime spikes, and he just runs his hands along your clothes and wipes away the worst of the pea-mash from them. He’s kissing you in a way that’s not meant to be seen in public, intimate and secretive, and you don’t want to share him.

You yank him away from your mouth, laugh in his face, and disappear by sneaking under one of his arms and dashing down the hallway.

It’s his own damn fault for having an altitude advantage on you, really. He only thinks he’s harder, better, faster, stronger than you. Of course, you’re cheating, and cheating impressively, but you’ll take every advantage you can over your pitchmate. (He is. You know it. He couldn’t fake those pheromones if he tried.)

Up the stairs, floating more than running, and then you’re at the door of the room you share with KK. The school, in a moment of addle-panned intellectual compromise, decided to room all of you by zodiac order, which means that AA and TV are on your one side, AC and KY on the other. By the time you burst into your own room, KK’s shrugging out of his shirt, his back to you and his musculature on full display. “Bug-noodled troll Christ,” he babbles, “could you maybe knock before you enter, or did your lusus manage to teach you nothing?”

“KK,” you say to him. “Palemate. Buddy. Pal.”

“You _stink_ ,” he complains after he shrugs another long-sleeved shirt on, same as the first. When he turns to face you, he holds his elbow over his face. “Seriously, what’s your problem? I don’t care what order you go in, alphabetical or chronological, so long as you fucking explain yourself, you… _oh_.”

Dirk is standing right behind you. You know this because his hands are circling your waist, broad swaths of black heat searing through your shirt and sneaking up to tickle at your grubscars. Every hormone he’s sending out has your fucking _skin_ on high alert, like it could listen to him just by how he smells.

Then he pulls you back to him, something firm in his jeans nudging somewhere between your sitspheres and the sensitive lower hollow of your torso column, and leans down to fucking _bite_ at your throat.

“You wet bag of behemoth leavings,” Karkat whispers. “Sollux, no.”

“Sollux, _yes_ ,” you insist, enunciating the sibilant parts perfectly. Dirk bites harder. You try to suppress a chitter and it comes out as a mild full-body shudder instead. “Now _get out_.”

Karkat narrows his eyes at you over the sleeve of his shirt. Your eyes crackle as you stare him down right back. He takes in a deep breath—and nearly chokes. It’s just going to be worse when he gets back, the kismesis pheromones permeating every cubic inch of this dorm room. Thankfully, KK doesn’t say another word, just holds his arm over his face as a temporary gas mask and absconds, shutting the door behind him.

No sooner does he vacate the premises than Dirk wheels you around and pins you against the nearest flat surface—the side of your closet. This time, when his mouth lands, it’s a precision blitzkrieg of the other side of your throat, nip-kiss-lick-bite-rinse-repeat. “Shit,” he whispers appreciatively, “couldn’t wait, huh, had to tell him to get the hell out because you wanna ravish me right now—”

“Yes—no—yes—” you don’t want to agree with what he’s saying, he’s your kismesis and he’s wrong about everything always at all times and in all ways just as a principle sort of thing. You don’t want him to stop but it’s all coalescing so fast and coming together so perfectly, just like you thought it would; doom churns heavy in your gut, warning you that if it seems too perfect, it’s usually about to self-destruct. “Slow down— _don’t stop_ —”

“Whoa there,” he murmurs, then sucks on your earlobe. Your hips jerk. His knee comes up between your legs, the meat of his thigh settling at the apex of yours to push your pelvis back against the wall. Hot, solid, heavy hands frame the cage of your pusher, smooth south, pet up again. “Gettin’ some mixed signals from you, which one is it?”

“Both—I—augh—” This isn’t something you hoped you’d ever have to articulate, but you’re being pulled in two directions at once and you feel like you might split in half transversely—brain jockeying for position along with the rest of you, leaving you with a throat scar like Dirk’s. You thumb across it, jerk his head back to center, and kiss him, flats of your fangs digging hard into his plush lips before he opens and floods your mouth with the taste of his hate again.

His tongue pushes lazily against yours, over and over and over, making you dizzier the deeper he goes. He’s fucking _luxuriating_ in it, the prick, grinding his thigh up against the vague area of your genitals as he fucks your mouth open. “The word is ‘stop,’” he says condescendingly, “and I won’t until you say it.”

“But I—” your brain will not go the fuck offline, you have to know what this is, this muddled vaguely black thing that you can clearly taste in the grit under his tongue but that he might not even realize he’s projecting at you. You thought humans didn’t _do_ the kind of chemical secretions trolls did, but the raw stench of his hate for you is so heady it’s seeping into your pores and insufflating your atmosphere aspirators by now. “ _You’re_ the one sending out the fucking mixed signals,” you challenge him, because you’re genuinely not sure whether he _means_ for his organic compounds to be pitching you on.

“None of that was _stop_ ,” Dirk points out. His breath feels so good fogged up against your face like that; your sniffnodes are suffused with dark concupiscent signaling.

“Thtop.” You bring out the lisp deliberately, because now you can actually _feel_ , not just see, the repulsed shudder that goes down his spine when you mangle your words so horribly between your tongue and your teeth. He does pull his mouth away, at least, but that means he looks at you. Nothing in his face is honest right now—shades a barrier to his eyes, eyebrows deliberately set straight, mouth pressed shut so as not to give away anything. In retribution, you dig the pads of your thumbs into the cheek-points of his shades and push up until they’re in his hair, glued there with dried sticky from the banana pudding.

There. Holy fucking shit. Your gut clenches. His eyes are _gorgeous_ , a more tawny sort of gold than yours would be if you weren’t a freak, daring the hemospectrum to go fuck itself. And the way they dart around, cataloguing the details of your face, your ears, your throat, on down your body—his irises contracting, pupils dilated. All of it focused on you.

It’s almost too much. “Tht,” you start out, before you realize, hey, this is serious, and you don’t want him dismissing this out of hand just because you’re affecting a speech impediment to make him angry at you on purpose. “Strider, are you, I mean—is this, are we, should we—fuck—”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses at you savagely before you can even let the rest of the words trip out of your mouth, “get on my page already, never thought you’d be this easy—”

Your torso column locks up, rung by rung, in an anticipatory shiver from the raw filth in his voice. Pitch washes over you. You want to claw his shirt off. You make do by encouraging him to get your top half naked instead, flinging your shirt god knows where and pushing your glasses up to tangle with your horns. You are not _easy_ , you want to complain, does he know how fucking difficult it is to flirt a reluctant kismesis onto your concupiscent platform, “ _you’re_ the fucking thlut, Thtrider, knew you’d want thith ath thoon ath I showed a thintilla of interetht—”

He licks a wet, dripping swath from your hollow collarbones to the jut of your throat, and just like that you’re rumbling beneath him. Not a purr. You are not a domesticated meowbeast. This is a quake, a subsonic possessory _growl_ , and when you claw at his shoulders in appreciation his reticent hips finally crash into yours. Your hands sneak between your bodies, find the bottom hem of his shirt, and rip upwards so violently you’re surprised fabric doesn’t literally rend.

As it is, Dirk’s shades clatter off uselessly, and the body of his shirt ends up behind his shoulders because apparently he can’t be assed to put his arms up and get out of the sleeves. You recognize some of this. Hell, you recognize pretty much _all_ of it. You’re not a prude like KK and your apiserver can withstand a few searches for interspecies porn, so you know those two darker, larger, jutting marks on Dirk’s chest are _nipples_ , and there’s this weird trail of _hair_ down into the confines of his rapidly-tightening jeans. “Like what you see?”

“Bored as shit,” you say dismissively, “do thomething interethting.”

His hand cups over the fly of your pants. “Interesting enough?”

“It’ll do.”

Dirk presses down with the heel of his hand, grinding the zipper of your skinnies right against the dilated slit of your sheath. Your wriggly wants to get out, and yesterday—having it trapped for so long is giving you a goddamn stomachache, and while you wouldn’t be entirely averse to sheathplay with a kismesis, you want to know that he’s actually got a, well. Firm hand on your anatomy, so to speak, before you even think about attempting it. The pressure rolls down, further, against the nadir of your sheath from the ball of Dirk’s palm, making the base of your bulge fucking pulse with need. Down even more, across his fingers, to the ends of them, into—

Your pusher leaps into your ignorance funnel. This, this is what trips you up every time, this is what signals you as a freak—he’ll _see_ , he’ll _feel_ , he’ll _know_ , and you squirm under his inquisitive touch but what’s most important is that you keep yourself from saying ‘stop.’ If he gets in your pants, you won’t have to. He’ll be repulsed, you just know it. Not sexually, just grossed out. And then both of you can go on with your lives and forget that this attempted kismessitude ever happened, laugh laugh, oh yes, remember that time we almost pailed each other fifteen minutes after we attempted to half-assedly jump into a quadrant together?

Dirk puts his mouth on yours again, keeps a hand in your hair and a thumb dangerously close to the base of your horns, and you discharge a spurt of static all the way down his wrist. “Damn,” he sighs, “can’t control those when you’re that turned on, huh?” You wish he could have _waited_ to find out that particular feature, hadn’t put together the pieces so easily, but then again, you wouldn’t be this throbbing for him unless he was this intelligent, so that sword really cuts both ways.

Instead of gratifying Dirk with a straight answer, though, you bite his lip—( _ow!_ )—and stare up at him. “Do it again and you lose your hand.”

“And yet you _gain_ control over the lisp. It’s like you do it on purpose to piss me off or something.” It would be just idle musing, but he’s brushing his lips over yours again. The taste of pitch he pours into your mouth is now underscored and gilded with the metallic tart of—arousal. Thick, undeniable, unmitigated.

You hold his head to yours, prickle your claws against his scalp and the nape of his neck, and he starts in on your pants. Drag your tongue against his, outline his teeth, tilt your head and slide your lips against his, slick and pressurized. By the time he gets your zipper down, your bulge is already folding out of its sheath, but the top half of it is still tucked in. A patch of lubricating material starts spreading across the front of your boxers.

Those go, too, and then it’s Dirk, searing fuckable-smelling irritating piece of shit _Dirk_ , with his hands on your junk and gently tugging on the base of your bulge so the rest whips out at him and bringing his other hand down from your horns just to play with the tip of your bulge, “jesus, you were holding this _in reserve?_ ”

What he doesn’t need to say, what you can imply from his tone, is _I’m going to stick this in my ass immediately if not sooner_. “Don’t get too excited,” you grit out as he grasps at the tip of it; the pre-mat means he slicks right off at first, and he has to play around with his grip, which gets you to huff out a little. “I’m not fucking you with it.” A healthy kismessitude relies in large part on not giving into your partner’s every whim, after all, and you’re determined to start this off on the right foot.

“Yet,” Dirk corrects you. You slap him on his breastbone, not gentle but not harsh, for his gratuitous eyebrow-waggling. And then the hand trapping the base of your bulge, slick with your pre from wrist to articulate fingertips, passes back—further back—

He hits the no-man’s-land between the base of your bulge and the end of your chute and pauses.

Your food blender knots. Your digestion noodles snarl. Doom settles into your chest. Because the waggling has most definitely stopped. In its place, Dirk’s eyebrows are knotted together in concentration. His fingertips prod against your taint again, like he’s looking for something by feel that he’s never felt before.

Dirk would only be looking for something if he knew what he was looking for. Apparently you’re not the only deviant grokking interspecies smut. But if he knows what he’s looking for, and looks confused that he can’t find it, then he’s either had his little epiphany or is going to put the pieces together in short order.

Your putative kismesis has just figured out that you weren’t in line the day the Mother Grub was handing out nooks.

“Hm,” is all he says to this at first. Just ‘hm.’ A small, dismissive, infuriating hum. Then, “huh,” a little more of an exhale, but sounding somewhat resigned to the fact. His hand goes back to the base of your bulge, then slicks back the length of your not-nook. “Fuck, you actually _want_ to take it up the ass your first time,” he sighs out. He sounds like you hit him in the chest with the erotic end of a hammer. His fingertips reach the entrance to your waste chute—and rub. Slow, wet, and hot. “That’s fucking _filthy_.”

You nearly crack your horns with your enthusiasm in throwing your head back against the wall. Your bulge, for lack of a better word, _cramps_ so hard it slips out of Dirk’s hold. It takes you a few seconds to figure out that the one who made the desperate “ngah!” noise was you. The hand that was on your bulge reclaims its spoils, going for the middle this time instead of the base or the tip. For what you lack in nook, you more than make up for in bulge, and it’s a small consolation prize that Dirk still seems to want that much, at least.

Dirk’s fingertips are still at your hole. You regret ever thinking poorly of his decision to be president of the Robotics Club—he has dexterity for days, fine-tuned by wiring and welding and _screwing_ , god you just want him to get them _in you_ already—“Nah-ah,” he pre-empts your command. “Sorry, bro, I ain’t puttin’ anythin’ in you that ain’t wrapped in latex.”

Not even his fucking fingers? You swallow, choke down a scream of frustration, and decide to let it linger in the back of your throat. It tastes delicious, like curdled hatred. You want him to know just how much you want to rip his head off right now. Ah, but if you did that, there’d be no one in control of the hand on your bulge doing deliriously dirty things. Fingers squeeze in a ring, one-two-three-four, as they slide up, back down, and the tip of your bulge curls around the backs of Dirk’s knuckles. “That’s that shit I like,” you mutter at him, “now _get me off_ , asshole!”

Dirk bites at the sharp of your jaw, then brushes his mouth across your face until it’s at your ear. “All good things,” he promises, “to those who wait.”

“Waited long enough for you to fucking notice I was flirting with you, you black hole of intellectual compromise,” you point out, and Dirk redoubles his efforts. “Ah fuck—” and you bite your lip hard, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to you, even when your bulge is slicking itself with so much pre that it’s running down your crack. Every press of Strider’s fingertips against your hole is slicker for it, a reminder that you’re still the best at humiliating yourself even when it’s him doing these degraded things to you. Your processors are overheating, your core nothing but a sizzle of greed, “fuck, Strider, I—”

His hand slides down your bulge too fast, but when it closes insistently around the base and pulls up that’s too slow. Then he _squeezes_ as he goes, just a little, just enough, and tells you, “Say my name.”

Your doom consumes you. The sheer apocalypse of it racks your bones, sears electric from scalp down spine to soles. “Dirk,” you whine helplessly, and he plants his mouth over yours to swallow his name from your lips and wipe you out in the nuclear hateblivion you can taste on his teeth. Your armageddon surges, hard, onto his chest, the thick jets of gold denting his skin where they hit, and it isn’t long before he’s dripping with your material, gilded with spooge.

He looks so good in your color.

Even while you’re coming down from it, mind-numbed jelly-legged, you’re pawing at him, sinking down on the wall now that he’s not pinning you up quite so violently. Your jeans are a sodden, helpless tangle around your ankles as your knees hit the linoleum. Your hands come up to the fasten of Dirk’s pants, and you clumsily work button, zip, waistband, pull down.

His cock juts out, up and slightly to one side, hard and twitching to the beat of his pulse. There’s a bead of damp at the tip, the flushed head of it, skin pulled taut and ridge girded down the length. Looks normal enough. You can deal with this. The saggy bits behind it are a little weird, and so is the hair in tight, trimmed curls all around the base, but eh. Humans.

You take it in hand and it’s—dry, which is weird, but humans aren’t self-lubricating, after all. When you bring your fingertip up to smear the wet from the slit at the top, Dirk sucks in a breath and holds it so hard you can see his ribs tremble. “You’re a _dithathter_ ,” you whisper reverently, and he gets the wind knocked out of him, something like a wordless moan caught in his throat as a strangled _hhhhh_.

It only gets better when you tease him with nothing but the pads of your fingers—index and middle on one side, opposable on the other. “Don’t tease,” he orders you. You ignore him. The texture of him—soft, pulse pounding—god, if you thought he smelled fuckable before it’s nothing compared to right now, your mouth is watering for fuck’s sake.

When you move the pressure up and down a little, Dirk’s hips follow you. That’s so counter-intuitive you don’t even know where to start. “Thtay,” you tell him. The next time he tries that, you just stop what you’re doing and look up with absolute disdain written all over your face. “What did I jutht thay.” Another experimental stroke and he miraculously stays put, tension settling into his thighs. “Good,” you purr. “Good.” Not so far gone. You close around him more insistently and Dirk’s breathing goes backwards; a hand up his thigh, deliberate static electricity from your prongtips catching the hairs you pass on your way, and he hiccups.

No sooner than you steady his dick so you can stick your tongue out to taste how much he hates you, he reaches down and fists his hand in your hair. Right around your horns. And _pulls_. It’s so delicately excruciating it has your eyes watering and your crotch aching, because there’s no way you can get swelled again so soon after that spill and yet Dirk wants to push your body harder anyway. The bases of your horns throb. “I said latex and I meant it.”

“Fine, mithter Thafety Thally,” you grumble. Your chest, though, constricts in a very genuine way. Dirk’s fastidious, you’ve known this for a long time, but to be as fastidious with you as he is with his belongings—that he doesn’t want to contaminate you—that he wants to keep you in good working order—that he already thinks of you as _his_ warms the cockles of your withered little spade and keeps your hatred of him burning bright.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t look so upset.” He lets his hand slip from the rat’s nest of your hair down the side of your face and strokes his thumb against your bottom lip. You being the little shit you are, you dart your tongue out to taste it, lick the sworls of his fingerprint, and suck it inside your mouth. Dirk presses down on your tongue, curls his fingers around your chin, and holds you like that. It shouldn’t make you feel this warm to be this denigrated by a new kismesis in the bloom of fresh hate, but instead of focusing on that, you start cataloguing all the ways in which you intend to thoroughly take him apart once he gives you half an opportunity.

You suck at Dirk’s thumb, rasp your teeth against the knuckle, pull your lips against his phalange, dart your tongue out to flick it against the web of his hand. Dirk chokes out a noise like “guh” and you start keeping score. With one hand grounded on his thigh and the other one stroking his cock, you start dancing psionics across his skin. Just a little, just at first, to see how sensitive he is. “Shit,” he whispers at your first pass, a crackle at the inside of his groin. A prickle across his hip yields a noise you want to grind to powder and snort straight up your sniffnodes.

Dirk doesn’t seem to realize he’s slapping one hand on the wall in front of him so he can prop himself standing with one shaking arm, elbow decidedly weak from your perspective. You want to tear him down and reduce him to base elements and string him back together stronger so he can withstand even more from you. The hand at your mouth is gripping your chin so hard you think he might be trying to crush your bones; it makes your mouth hang open, and you push his thumb to the side of your mouth. “Eyeth on me,” you slur up at him.

He looks down. Something’s on fire behind his eyes and you want it to stay lit forever. “Captor,” he says, “shit, god, I’m gonna—”

Time to show off. A delicate sparkle of red and blue arcs down the parts of Dirk you can’t wrap around with your hand and that’s it, he’s gone, going off like a firework. He shoves his hips into your hand and spurts, twitching in your grip. His material splats against your closet wall and you are _so_ not cleaning that up. A second dribble, a third, and he’s a goddamn mess is what he is, covered in jizz and reeking of sex so badly you can nearly taste it, but he’s “my goddamn methh,” you murmur as you press your face against his thigh.

Dirk doesn’t let you have that consolation for long. His knees give out, and he lands with a thud that sounds painful. When he takes his thumb away from your mouth, it’s only to replace it with his tongue, and damn him, _fuck him_ , why does he only taste _better_ after he comes? His hatred makes the inside of your mouth fucking tingle and you want to chase down every atom of it until you can mainline it.

The two of you are sloppy, uncoordinated, covered in jizz, and sated, the rough edges sanded off and everything smearing together into a black post-coital haze. He breathes you in, and you push your nose into his cheek, and he swipes lazily inside your mouth, and you hold his face, and he cradles your skull, and you kiss, doped on sex and skin.

Eventually it’s not so much that you’re kissing as that you’re sharing the same air, your foreheads together and barely connected at the lips. “Strider,” you manage to say, “are we—”

“I hate you,” he says fervently, and then starts to laugh. “I—yeah, I mean—I want to, we can try—that was just a little intense, is all—”

“Like you’ve never fucked on the first date,” you tease him. When he looks at you like that, though, without his shades guarding his eyes, he looks so young and almost soft that you could almost forget how lethal he is: Dirk Strider, a sword in his own right, sharp-edged and honed and flexible yet brittle, only just now nineteen and still some seasons younger than you. That twist of his mouth, though, lets you know you’ve nudged against something tender. “You’ve never fucked on the first date.”

“This wasn’t a _date_ ,” he rationalizes, though even _he_ seems to think it’s a bad excuse. “It wasn’t _sex_.”

“Such date, very sex, wow.”

“Did you just _meme_ me?”

“Feels good, man,” is your only excuse. You give him a poorly-aimed jolt to the asscheek and he finally starts to untangle from you. Twists, looking for his shirt and shades, and shows you every muscle group on his torso. You want to _rip him apart_ and you’re not sure this crawling itch under your skin will ever go away.

Finally he starts putting his clothes back on. The cloth of Dirk’s shirt immediately sticks to his chest when he puts it on—that’s what he gets for not toweling off first. “Piss on me,” he grumbles to himself. “Fucking piss on me.”

“The back of your head is ridiculous.” It’s hard not to laugh—Dirk’s hair is either standing straight on end or flopped over on itself, sticky with pudding or with… well, _pudding_.

“Stop fucking _memeing_ me!” Dirk goes to swat you on the top of your head, but you’re shrugging into your pants and so is he, so it just ends up as a weird shuffle across the room. You trip over a cuff, you crash into him, he folds like a domino, and would you look at that, you’re on your bed.

And also squelched into his shirt. “Hey, I jutht fucked you,” you spit into his face, “and thith ith crazy, but you’re _dithguthting_ , tho shower maybe?”

Dirk bats his eyelashes at you. Kid has so much weeaboo kawaii desu baka in him that he can get his eyes to sparkle moe at will. “Can I get yo’ numba?”

You haul him up by the collar with a generous assist from your psionics. “I’m putting you in gay baby jail,” you tell him as you lead him out into the hallway. He barely has his pants buttoned. His face is screaming _I just had sex, and it felt so good_. “I’ll… tecktht. Or thomething.”

One last time, Dirk closes the gap between you and lays a kiss on your lips. Sweet. Too sweet. Mocking. That flare of hatred starts to churn in your gut again. “Thee you thoon,” he mimics you, then shuts the door in your face. As in the wood bops your nose when the door closes.

You are shirtless, covered in body fluid residue, and your dorm room smells like an orgy. You whip out your phone—and the actual texting client, not Trollian—and send:

And here you thought those card suit ASCIIs were for chumps. You send Dirk a fried shrimp emoji, get back an okay sign and an ear of corn, and there goes the rest of your afternoon.


	3. dénouement

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] started trolling twinArmageddons[TA] at 13:44 --  
CG: ONCE YOU'RE DONE KICKING ME OUT OF MY OWN ROOM, DO ME A FAVOR AND GIVE ME A FUCKING EXPLANATION FOR THIS.  
\-- twinArmageddons [TA] is currently idle! --  
CG: AND I MEAN A PROPER EXPLANATION, NOT JUST "DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, HE WAS DTF."  
\-- twinArmageddons [TA] has returned at 14:02 --  
CG: TROLL JESUS WEPT, A HALF-HOUR OF THAT?  
TA: before you 2ay anythiing, can you ju2t... not 2ay anythiing?  
CG: I AM IN CLASS RIGHT NOW BUT SO HELP ME MOTHER GRUB I AM GOING TO PAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR SORRY ASS FROM HALFWAY ACROSS CAMPUS.  
CG: WHAT MADE YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?  
CG: DO I EVEN WANT TO KNOW? WATCHING YOU FLIRT WITH STRIDER HUMAN DIRK WAS PAINFUL ENOUGH WHILE HE *WASN'T* RECIPROCATING YOUR OVERTURES.  
CG: IT WAS LIKE TRYING TO DECIPHER AN INTRICATE COURTSHIP PROCESS BETWEEN AN ATTRACTIVE POTENTIAL KISMESIS, AND SOME SORT OF VEGETABLE.  
CG: (HE IS THE VEGETABLE. IT IS HIM.)  
TA: 2hoo2h, a22hole.  
TA: he'2 not a vegetable, or a gro22 mammal apebea2t, or anythiing el2e you want two iin2ult hiim wiith.  
CG: IS IT THAT YOU CAN'T FIND ANYONE IN YOUR OWN SPECIES TO BE BLACK WITH? IS THAT IT?  
CG: BECAUSE, IF YOU'LL RECALL, I'VE VOLUNTEERED MYSELF FOR THE GROUP SEXUAL SACRIFICE ON THE ALTAR THAT IS YOUR LIBIDO.  
TA: that'2 cute, but ii don't hate you that way and you know iit.  
CG: YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR HIM.  
CG: SHIT, I GET BEING PERSISTENT TO NAIL SOMEBODY *GOOD*, BUT STRIDER?  
TA: but they're 2o ta2ty when they're piitch.  
CG: NOPE. WE ARE NOT SPINNING THIS CONVERSATION AROUND AND POINTING THE SPOTLIGHT ON ME.  
CG: I SEE YOU. OVER THERE. TYPING. SCHEMING. TRYING TO AVOID MY INESCAPABLE LOGIC BY AIMING MY CRITICISM BACK AT MYSELF.  
CG: BUT THIS CONVERSATION? IS ABOUT *YOU* AND *YOUR* MISTAKES.  
CG: SERIOUSLY? A HUMAN?  
TA: 2iign.  
TA: ii don't expect you two under2tand, iit'2 ju2t that.  
TA: 2hiit, KK, he'2 the only per2on ii've met who can even attempt two keep up wiith me iintellectually.  
TA: do you ever meet 2omeone and the fiir2t tiime they open theiir mouth you ju2t want two decon2truct them two theiir compo2iite atom2 because you hate them 2o fuckiing much but then you want two recon2truct them and put them back twogether even 2tronger than they were before ju2t two make them iintwo an even better kii2me2ii2?  
CG: ... WOW.  
CG: I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU TALK SO MUCH ABOUT YOURSELF.  
TA: iit'2 called feeliing2, you should try them 2ometiime.  
CG: I HAVE FEELINGS!  
CG: I HAVE FEELINGS I HAVEN'T EVEN TALKED ABOUT YET.  
CG: LIKE MY FEELING THAT THIS KISMESSITUDE IS GOING TO BLOW UP IN YOUR FUCKING FACE, SERIOUSLY, WHAT ARE YOU ON, FAYGO-ENCRUSTED CHITIN-SOPOR DOUCHED STRAIGHT INTO YOUR WASTE CAVITY?  
CG: HE'S A HUMAN, SOLLUX.  
CG: HUMANS DON'T DO QUADRANTS.  
CG: GASP SHOCK, I HAVE TALKED TO A FEW HUMANS IN MY TIME, AND THEY CAN'T EVEN WRAP THEIR PUNY LITTLE MAMMALIAN HEADS AROUND OUR CULTURAL NORMS.  
TA: except 2triider grew up liike that, he know2 how two be a kii2me2ii2.  
CG: SOLLUX. OH MY GOD.  
CG: I AM YOUR FRIEND.  
CG: I AM YOUR MOIRAIL.  
CG: I'M NOT SAYING THESE THINGS JUST TO HURT YOUR FEELINGS, WHICH I KNOW YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO BEGIN WITH.  
CG: I'M SAYING THIS BECAUSE I'M TRYING TO PROTECT YOUR SANITY. WHICH I ALSO KNOW YOU NEVER HAD IN THE FIRST PLACE.  
CG: I DON'T KNOW WHY I BOTHER. IT'S LIKE PUSHING A ROCK UPHILL BOTH WAYS WITHOUT SHOES FOR ETERNITY, ONLY I DON'T GET THE LUXURY OF HAVING MY PHLEGM FILTER EATEN OUT EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT.  
CG: BUT NOW THAT THE CLOUD OF PHEROMONES IS (HOPEFULLY) STARTING TO DISSIPATE, I WANT YOU TO GET THIS THROUGH YOUR SCRAMBLED PAN.  
CG: AND, JUST AS A WARNING, I'M GOING TO SOUND A LOT LIKE A CERTAIN ASSHAT WE ALL KNOW WHEN I SAY IT, BUT I'M GOING TO SAY IT ANYWAY  
CG: BECAUSE I <> YOU, OK, AND THAT <> IS STRONGER THAN MY EMBARRASSMENT.  
CG: HAVE YOU CONSIDERED THAT YOU MIGHT BE (GOD I'M VOMITING IN MY DAMN MOUTH) TRIGGERING DIRK BY DREDGING UP OLD (I'M GOING TO THROW MYSELF INTO THE FUCKING SUN) CULTURAL PARADIGMS  
CG: (DRY HEAVES) FORCIBLY IMPOSED ON HIM BY HER INCANDESCENT CESSPOOL, LONG MAY SHE ROLL OVER IN HER SHALLOW-WATER GRAVE?  
TA: ii thought about iit, and then ii dii2mii22ed iit pretty much iimmediiately.  
TA: pheromone2 don't liie, KK.  
TA: and neiither doe2 the ye2 ii got when ii FUCKIING A2KED HIIM ABOUT IIT, becau2e contrary two popular beliief, ii am not a complete fuck2tiick.  
CG: OH GOOD, YOU ASKED FOR CONSENT.  
CG: CONGRATULATIONS. YOU MEET THE BARE MINIMUM STANDARDS FOR DECENCY.  
TA: ii got a <3< from hiim earliier, 2o iit'2 not exactly liike iit wa2 a mii2communiicatiion.  
CG: SO... THAT'S IT?  
CG: YOU FINALLY GOT THE GIRL IN YOUR BLACK QUADRANT?  
TA: ... ii gue22?  
TA: oh 2hiit.  
TA: help.  
TA: KK, help.  
CG: WHAT NOW, YOU HISTRIONIC COATHANGER?  
TA: 2omethiing ju2t went riight for me, what do ii do?  
CG: ... I DON'T KNOW, MAYBE ENJOY IT?  
TA: what iif ii fuck thii2 up?  
TA: thii2 could be the begiiniing of 2omethiing really excellent and ii don't want two fuck iit up but ii'm me, ok, ii'm a freak and he'2 goiing two notiice ju2t how much of one ii am and then what?  
CG: SOLLUX.  
CG: I HOPE YOU CAN FEEL ME PAPPING MY WEBCAM.  
CG: CALM DOWN, YOU FREAKOUT SPAZ WEASEL.  
CG: YOU WOULD MAKE ANYONE A GOOD KISMESIS.  
CG: STRIDER'S LUCKY.  
CG: THAT BEING SAID, IF HE HURTS YOU?  
CG: I AM GOING TO SHOVE THE BUSINESS END OF A SICKLE UP HIS HUMAN RECTUM.  
TA: come on, KK, be niice.  
CG: ONLY IF I HAVE TO.  
CG: I'M COMING BACK TO THE ROOM NOW.  
CG: PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF THE FISHBITCH'S TITS, FUMIGATE THE ROOM AND TAKE A SHOWER BEFORE I GET THERE  
CG: BECAUSE IF I HAVE TO INHALE ANY INDISCRIMINATELY-AIMED PHEROMONES, OR SEE YOUR SLURRY SPILLED ON THE FLOOR, OR LISTEN TO YOU BLATHERING ON ABOUT HOW HARD HE MADE YOU CONTRIBUTE, OR BEAR WITNESS TO *ANYTHING* THAT WOULD INDICATE THAT YOU JUST GOT PAILED, THEN I WILL TROLL THE EVERLIVING BUGFUCK OUT OF YOUR NEW HATEDATE.  
CG: BECAUSE WHETHER YOU AND DIRK HAVE A THING, OR DON'T HAVE A THING, OR TOOK A ROMANTIC HOT AIR BALLOON RIDE SUSPENDED IN A GODDAMN BLACK FILIAL PAIL TOGETHER  
CG: MY MAIN CONCERN IS THAT YOU'RE OK.  
CG: ARE YOU OK?  
TA: ii'm fiine.  
CG: PROMISE?  
TA: ii 2wear.  
CG: I'M PILING ON YOU IN T-MINUS THIRTY SECONDS.  
CG: PREPARE YOUR ASS FOR A SHOOSHPAP WORTHY OF EPIC SLAM POETRY.  
TA: <> you, KK.  
CG: <> YOU TOO, MEMELORD.  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] stopped trolling twinArmageddons [TA] at 14:52

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 14:02 --  
TT: DiStri to RoLal, do you copy RoLal?  
TG: i copy u loud n clear bab  
TG: whats ur 10-4  
TT: Are you in class or anything?  
TG: no y  
TT: Because this is heavy and I just wanna run this past you.  
TG: uh oh  
TG: dirkadoodle what did u do this tiem  
TT: I think I just accidentally had sex with Sollux.  
TG: um  
TG: wat  
TG: seriouxly wat  
TG: sexily*  
TG: do u ever just haet iphones  
TG: anywayyyyy leaving off my horbible typos how do u even have sex on accident  
TG: whoops i slipped n fell in ur bulge???  
TG: *on  
TT: No, it was more like:  
TT: Step one: Only just now realize that Sollux was flirting with me that whole time last semester.  
TG: i so titly called it  
TT: Pitch flirting.  
TG: the plot thickents  
TT: Step two: Get memed on hard in the computer lab.  
TT: Step three: Chase him through campus until you kiss him.  
TT: Step four: ???  
TT: Step five: Cum. Everywhere.  
TG: ya but like  
TG: sry2b ur mom but were there condoms involved  
TT: No, because I wasn't exactly counting on falling ass-backwards into a relationship with Sollux goddamn Captor when I went to go work on my Robotics project.  
TT: Sorry, by the way. I got less than no work done on the file. There's still an ASCII dick floating at the top of the code that I can't figure how to take out.  
TG: dnt worry im workin on a way 2 flash him boops rite back  
TT: Atta girl.  
TG: no but srsly u said there was sex so now im a lil ???  
TT: Does "mutual handjobs because I refused to indulge in penetration due to lack of protection" count as sex?  
TG: oh distri  
TG: just bcuz ther were no dicks invulved doesnt mean it wasnt  
TG: did u wnat him to cum  
TT: Yes.  
TG: did he want u to cum  
TT: I sure hope so, because that's what he got out of it.  
TG: p sure thats sex bab  
TT: Shit.  
TG: bby  
TT: Shit. Fuck. Shit.  
TG: dirk hun  
TG: shhhhhhh  
TT: Roxy, I'm not normally like this.  
TG: ya butt look at it this way  
TG: thnik of it as the culimination of a flirty thign thats been goin on for a long dong time  
TG: *long omg  
TG: its not like this jsut came outta nowhere  
TG: dud the 2 of u like talk abt it or anythingn  
TT: Yeah, and I think... I think I'm his hate boyfriend?  
TT: I don't know what I'm doing and I'm freaking out.  
TT: It's not that I don't like it.  
TT: Because... well, I'm not exactly averse to going back for seconds.  
TT: And thirds. And fourths. And all of it, ok, Roxy, I want all of him and I want it in pieces and I want to crush him in my hands and burn down his skeleton and put the ashes in a little vial around my neck.  
TT: Only figuratively, because I'm not, y'know, a fucking sociopath.  
TG: no i ttly get it babs  
TG: u hate him  
TT: I loathe him.  
TT: Abhor. Despise. Detest. I would fuck the thesaurus for him.  
TT: It's just that... what am I even doing here? I'm not a troll, but I still have all these emotions.  
TG: i haet to hav 2 tell u like this but dirk u r actually *gaps!* human after all  
TG: w/ feeligns and emotions and realtionships  
TT: Yeah, but now what?  
TT: For once everything is rainbows and ponies and I don't know what to do.  
TG: idk enjoy it???  
TG: cmon man  
TT: I get it, bro.  
TT: Trust me, I'm trying.  
TG: but ur ok w/ this?  
TG: this hole kiss kiss fall in hate thingie?  
TG: cuz u msgd me all panickerino and it made me v concernicus for ur wellbenign  
TG: n dont just answer y bc u thikn itll get me off ur case cuz it wont mister  
TT: Here's the thing, though: Yes.  
TT: I know what I felt, and even though it doesn't make any damn sense, it's also... pure. It just feels good.  
TT: Be it here resolved, I'm gonna ride that horse as far as it takes me.  
TG: u gonna treat solcap like hes ur personal rodeo?  
TT: Soon as I do my extracurricular biology research.  
TT: And finish this Robotics project, damn it, do you have time tonight to go through it together? My laptop's fried.  
TG: did he do it 2 flirt w u  
TT: Actually, yes, and I can't believe my security was that lax.  
TT: And apparently I'm banned from Cetus South, do you maybe want to meet up at Cetus West and we'll go back to the Hemera Building to use the lab there?  
TG: sure thing bby  
TG: and ur gonna tell me all the spoogey details rite? *wankwonk*  
TT: *Juicy.  
TT: See you soon, babe.  
TG: ttyl bro!!  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 14:49 --


End file.
